The stub of a candle in a rotting old pumpkin —
let’s light it one more time — then watch brave autumn
cave in on itself — and treasure the rind.
Pumpkins
I love them best
on frozen steps
with sunken cheeks
and moldy breath,
abandoned.
I love the rest
in muddy fields,
bright with age
and ripe with next
year’s children.
I love them
riding on a truck,
or safely cradled
in a woman’s
palms.
I would be one
when daylight fails
or winter comes,
as long as she
would have me.
Collected Poems
[ 555 ]
Categories: Collected Poems, New Poems & Pieces
William Michaelian 